Dark Lord Idol
by YakAge
Summary: Bored by a perfect world of total happiness, the good people of Britain decide they want their very own Dark Lord, just for the thrill of it. One-shot. AU


_**AN1 (Black Luminary): **I'll get around to it, promise. _

_**AN2 (about this story [the important bit literally {in every meaning of the word} hidden amidst the waffle]):** A cynical drama in three acts. Or six parts. Or five. Sort of. You'll see what I mean._

_**Warning:** Really 'improper' language (whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean), violence, and stuff. Also: third wall. Furthermore, moderate use of brains probably required. Yikes!_

_**AN3 (some more waffle [I like waffle{s}]):**__ I've heard it said that some people consider the tone of this story to be sarcastic and cynical. I resent the accusation; I am concerned with matters of consequence. I don't amuse myself with balderdash. Waffles for anyone recognising the quote._

_Lastly, I also like brackets. Sue me._

_Even more lastly (cringe, you bothering semanticists, cringe!), I hope you like yourself some good ol' utopia. It's one of those things I can never get enough of._

* * *

**Dark Lord Idol**

Gilderoy Lockhart loved his lot in life. As much as anything, he was the embodiment of flighty entertainment, that dazzling flicker of grandeur, that one moment of meaningless, addictive joy you drank from the screen like the waters of forgetfulness – and he loved every fleeting second of it.

'Thank you. Thank you! Thank you very much. Ah, you spoil me so!'

Gilderoy grinned boyishly at the cajoling audience. Winking at a woman in the front row as the cheers washed over him, he soaked up every moment like blotting paper.

'Thank you! Ladies and gentlemen, please! Thank you. Welcome! Welcome, indeed, but some of you have – I dare say – rightfully asked: welcome to what exactly? You all know me. Of course you do. Gilderoy Lockhart, far-famed vanquisher of the vile, slayer of smut, mindful minder of public misdemeanours.'

He took a flamboyant bow with many a twirl of his hands, and the audience cheered again.

'Ladies and gentlemen, you all know of alternate universes. At the very least, you're all familiar with the Ministry's Alter-Us show that runs daily, broadcasting a select few universes that are logically the closest to our reality. But – and this is where it gets mysterious – the hard-working and diligent workers in the bowels of the Ministry have recently made a puzzling discovery. Indeed, I am proud to declare that our intelligentsia theorised with some confidence that – unbelievably – not all of our parallel universes are perfect utopias of magical wonders and all-encompassing happiness. How's that for a twist?! Can you bend your mind around that? I sure can't! What's wrong with your world, semi-real multiverse neighbours? Get it together!

'Happily, our great Unspeakables have – like with any of their many inventions – left their discovery entirely in the public domain. Come on, gents. That's worth a bit of applause, isn't it? Give it up for our Unspeakables, ladies and gentlemen! You chaps are the best!'

Gilderoy grinned, clapping wildly, waving at a few figures in the background who gracefully acknowledged the crowd's loud approval.

'But why stop at watching?! We all need that bit of excitement in our lives, don't we? And so, with Comrade Minister Potter's express approval, tonight, at this very venture, we crown our very own … Dark Lord!'

He laughed along with the crowd, smiling at the colourful and entirely harmless fireworks the crowd set off with their wands.

'Let me introduce the panel of judges, folks! First … from Devon, Miss … Luna Lovegood!'

Luna was a young woman with waist-length dirty blonde hair. She nodded happily, shaking Gilderoy's hand. 'Hello, Professor. Thanks for having me.'

'Oh, we're delighted to have you, Luna. Delighted! I'm sure you all know Luna as the trend-setting editor of the Daily Prophet. But few know that Luna's also interested in the cryptozoology. Isn't that so, Luna?'

'Oh, yes, Professor. But I'm also a hopeless romantic.'

'Fascinating! But we're not here to talk about romance, are we, Luna? We're here to talk about bad guys!'

Luna smiled. 'Some girls fancy bad boys, Professor.'

'So I hear,' said Gilderoy with a huge wink, tapping his nose conspiratorially. 'But in all seriousness, what should a Dark Lord bring to the table in your opinion?'

'Oh – he would have to be imposing and grand, I dare say, with just a hint of dark mystique.'

'Imposing and grand, eh?'

'Yes. And possibly a bit … rough. You know. Uncouth.'

'I see! And what should best be avoided in our hoodlum Dark Lord?' inquired Gilderoy.

'Well, I don't want a Dark Lord who looks too nice. How should I put it …? I imagine our nemesis to be … physically repulsive. And unfriendly. Snarling possibly. He might have a backstory as a nice kid – for just the right touch of shadowy three-dimensional character design, you understand – but he can't be handsome. That wouldn't work for me.'

'Snarling,' repeated Gilderoy, fascinated.

'Yes.' Luna nodded. 'You know, Professor. Like an angry dog. Dogs snarl … don't they? Or, now that I think about it, they could also be eerily handsome. Our hopeful Dark Lord, not the dog. Or beautiful, of course. But they mustn't be down-to-earth good-looking. I just can't picture the mundane next-door kind of person I'm passingly friendly with to be the epitome of evil. That's just … no! A big no-no! Dark Lords should be either hideously repulsive or inhumanly beautiful.'

'You're certainly imaginative, Luna. I don't think I've ever seen a human snarl!'

Luna grinned sheepishly. 'I try not to get my hopes up.'

'Ladies and gentlemen, I can see our jury is going to be tough as nails! Can you believe it? Snarling! Physically repulsive?! High bars.'

Gilderoy took a few steps to the left, standing in front of the next judge who sat behind the jury's shared table. Alert, wild grey eyes full of life clashed with his own. His smile came even easier.

'The next member of our jury barely needs an introduction, of course. Hogwarts has always been our pride and joy and – tonight – it is my very great pleasure to welcome our venerable school's highest office-bearer: Headmistress Bellatrix Black!'

'Thank you, Gilderoy,' said Bellatrix, favouring him with a genteel smile of her own. 'It is an honour to be here today.'

A few people in the crowd began to chant: 'Black! Black! Black! Black!'

The Headmistress gave a thin smile, raising her feminine hand in acknowledgement. 'Thank you, fellow witches and wizards. You are most gracious.'

'But we are doubly grateful to have you here tonight, Headmistress. What our dear audience doesn't know, of course, is that you volunteered to stand in for your good friend Lucius Malfoy, who couldn't be with us tonight due to medical reasons.'

Bellatrix nodded gracefully. 'I am to assure you all that our Chief Warlock is already well on his way to making a full recovery, and he expressed his greatest regrets that he was prevented from attending tonight's proceedings.'

'Oh, but I'm sure we all understand. Health is important after all!'

'Indeed. I advise everyone to keep their health at the forefront of their minds at all times.'

'So what are your thoughts, Headmistress? Any notions of how you picture Britain's Dark Lord?'

'Well,' said Bellatrix, neatly folding her hands on the table in front of her. 'I agree with Miss Lovegood's assessment of physical descriptors. A villain should be visually removed from the crowd. Mannerisms, idiosyncrasies, bearing – all of that should serve to contrast him from the upstanding masses and – it stands to reason – the hero.'

'The hero?'

'It follows that – wherever evil festers – fate will beckon for a hero to emerge and lead the innocent to inevitable triumph.'

'Oh!' exclaimed Lockhart. 'You entertain thoughts of open confrontation? Of, dare I say it, altercations? Possibly happening in the streets? During daylight?!'

'I understand your reluctance, Gilderoy. A Dark Lord wouldn't think like you and me. They would have to be … unhinged. A minor psychological disorder, perhaps. Mental illness is an easy way to explain thoroughly rotten behaviour, of course.'

'Oh, how devious. But wouldn't that make the Dark Lord a victim, too?'

'Quite right,' said Bellatrix, nodding. 'Which is why he should go to any lengths to antagonise the hero. Threaten his loved ones, perhaps. Make light of death. Mock the fallen. A bit of a … scuffle, maybe. Words thrown in temper. It is difficult to sympathise with a victim that is also a willing culprit. Guilt is easier to stomach in absolutes.'

'Wow,' breathed Gilderoy. 'I see you've put some thought into this, Headmistress.'

'I have long weeks of summer to dwell on such matters, Gilderoy. Besides, Miss Lovegood implied most of what I elucidated, I am sure.' She bowed her head in Luna's direction.

'But you use much nicer words than me, Headmistress,' said Luna, grinning.

'I _am_ the grandmotherly paragon type of person, I suppose,' admitted Bellatrix ruminatively.

Gilderoy almost winced, and a lot of men in the audience did just that. Nobody wanted to be told that the glamorous, cool beauty they nourish a passing fancy for considers herself a grandmother. 'Forgive me, Headmistress, but I don't think that's your type at all.'

Again, that thin, aristocratic smile. 'My only husband is the grounds and walls of Hogwarts. And children – why – I get a hundred every year.'

'That I can get behind!' said Gilderoy, eyes twinkling happily. 'But let's meet the last member of our jury! I give you the world-renowned Potioneer whose own brand of tonics and elixirs operates around the civilised world – Peter Pettigrew!'

'What's up, Gilderoy? You good?'

'I'm fabulous! And you, Peter?'

'I'm great, man. Sev and me – we've just made another breakthrough with the Wolfsbane. Should be able to suppress the transformation in its entirety now. We'll try to have it ready for the market next month. For medical emergencies and academic experimentation at a special rate, mind.'

'Great news, great news! Applause, folks, for Severus Snape and Peter Pettigrew!' Gilderoy smiled toothily, clapping the stocky man on the shoulder. When the ruckus settled a bit, he began anew. 'So, Peter. Dark Lords.'

'Dark Lords, ey?'

'Yes. What do you think? Ugly or beautiful? Mentally scarred and fated to combat the hero?'

'I suppose,' said Peter grudgingly. 'Let's see. I mean, in the end, we can talk about qualifications and whatnot all day, but I don't know. It just has to click, you know? If I don't feel that spark, that … malevolent flame of genius, does it really matter if they've got a harelip? Or a tragically deformed body? Nah, I reckon I just have to feel it. Conviction. That's it – conviction! You have to feel that they're absorbed in their role, that they mean business. Doesn't really matter what business exactly, I reckon. But otherwise, you'll be left with a piss-poor wuss. Nobody likes a wuss.'

'Ah, I see! Care to take a guess? About … whatever it is they might hope to achieve?'

'I don't know. It'd have to be something low, I suppose. Like, a Dark Lord can't be a weakling fighting for love. That's just not a thing.'

'Also,' said Bellatrix from the side, 'that would make it difficult to differentiate him from the antagonising hero, who – of course – must have a drive equal or greater to the villain's but without the moral blemish.'

'Right. Right,' said Peter, nodding. 'I suppose he just has to be low. Mean. Cowardly, maybe. People despise cowards.'

'Cowards?' prompted Gilderoy, intrigued. 'Why do you think that is?'

'Well, I dare say it reminds the general audience too much of real life. The villain stands for one thing, the hero for the opposite. Posh versus poverty; establishment versus underdog; corruption versus innocence. That kind of stuff. Symbols.'

'Moral symbolism would be nice,' mused Luna thoughtfully. 'Spares the author a lot of effort.'

'How?' asked Gilderoy curiously.

'Well, your audience doesn't have to think so much, I suppose. You can piggyback on the symbol without any genuine exposition, play it up to people's established opinions and cultural pretext. Tropes and topoi are neat like that. Like orphans.'

'Orphans?'

'Your hero,' explained Luna patiently. 'Everyone feels for the orphan. You can't help it. But you have to make it stick for the hero, so it should probably be a miserably poor orphan. A hero can never be poor enough. He should be so very poor that he can't even afford socks.'

'Now you're taking the mickey!'

'No, Professor,' said Luna calmly. 'Maybe … yes … maybe he's had it rough, too. A rough childhood is such a tearjerker.'

'A diverting line of thought, Miss Lovegood,' said Bellatrix with an expression of professional approval. 'So our villain should be the inverse to mirror the unrealistic portrayal of preconceived innocence with an equally unrealistic effigy of malice. Or possibly a twisted doppelganger? People cling to similarities. It bears further pondering.'

'Easy, ladies!' Gilderoy laughed with the crowd. 'This isn't academic discourse!'

Peter rolled his eyes. 'If it were, I should say journalists and teachers would hardly sit at the panel.'

Gilderoy almost flinched again, but his smile stayed strong. 'Oh, Peter, you little scallywag, you!'

'Guilty,' said Peter without the faintest trace of a smile. 'Anyway, I've just thought of something. A Dark Lord would have to be massively powerful – but not insurmountably so.'

'What makes you say so?' asked Gilderoy, lunging at the change of topic. 'How's that supposed to work?'

'Well, I reckon you want your Dark Lord to frighten people, right? Power frightens people. Especially if they don't understand it or if it's vast and beyond comprehension. Uncontrollable. If they see that, they get fearful and spiteful and all that. And that's good because it's exactly what you want. The Dark Lord would be free to flaunt his massive power without achieving too much. The hero, meanwhile, struggles.'

'Struggles?!' asked Gilderoy, doing just that to catch up with what felt like a rehearsed conversation.

'Oh, you're a genius, Peter. Don't you see, Professor?' said Luna, excitedly bouncing in her chair. 'Struggling makes people likeable. You can relate to people working for what they want. Especially if they're oh so noble. But the Dark Lord would have to be imposingly powerful from the start! That's just common sense. You can't fear a Dark Lord who starts out weak but grows stronger than the hero, can you?'

'Nah,' said Peter, rubbing his stubbly chin. 'That'd be … unfair, I reckon. That's not how these things are supposed to work.'

Bellatrix muttered something inaudible, giving Luna a very flat look.

Luna's eyelashes fluttered several times before she held a hand in front of her mouth, sniggering. 'Oops!'

Gilderoy was somewhat lost, but he wasn't an experienced host for nothing. He knew just the thing to do. Beaming, he addressed the crowd with steely confidence. 'And there you have it, gents! The jury. But now – let's get right down to it. Let's elect … Britain's Dark Lord Idol!'

_**Cut!**_

'Geez, Peter,' said Gilderoy, the smile sliding off his face as the make-up artists came running. 'You can't talk like that in public!'

'Oh, you mean that teacher dig? Well, it's true! Look, you measure a researcher on his thesis, a scholar on his knowledge, an artist on his work, so shouldn't we rate teachers on the kids? And look at that bunch! Biggest band of tossers and losers ever. See that kid in the second row? Fat? Blond hair, side parting? Looks like he'll poke his own eye out with his wand.'

'Coffee? Anyone?' yelled the producer's assistant.

'Be that as it may,' said Gilderoy, grinning nervously at Bellatrix Black, who was pointedly inspecting her nails. 'There's a time and a place. Time and place!'

'All right, everyone, that was perfectly dreadful,' called Stanley Shunpike in his baggy shirt from across the stage as he clapped his hands, a thin, foul-smelling cigarillo stuck between his teeth. 'Five minutes, then we'll start with the first idiot in line. You, Luna!'

'Yes?'

'You need to be more out of it. Out of focus.'

Luna's smiled innocently. 'But the cameraman –'

'Look here, missy,' snapped Stanley. 'I don't care who got you on this panel! I don't produce family entertainment because I enjoy lame jokes, so shut your face and do as you're told, understood?'

Luna flinched, nodding.

'Good. Characters need to be quirky. Stop being sensible. Invent some wild stuff or whatever. Talk more bullshit. You're with the media, right? See? Easy! Headmistress?'

'Yes?' drawled Bellatrix, still refusing to deign anything but her nails with her attention.

Stanley did a double-take when faced with this open show of arrogant dismissal. Then, he grinned. 'Nice. Keep that up. Peter? Great fucking start. But you can press for more.'

'What?!' demanded Gilderoy. 'But he insulted some of our most respected members of society, not to mention the entire audience watching!'

'Exactly,' said Stan, nodding as he sucked impatiently on his fag. 'Right to their faces. That'll keep the press raging for days. Maybe it'll grow into public controversy. Be the talk of other shows.'

'But … but,' stammered Gilderoy.

'I hate to say it, Professor,' said Luna gloomily. 'But he's probably right.'

'Flirting with excess!' said Stanley. 'Flirting with scandal. That's it, you've got to toe the line, playfully exploring the forbidden boundaries of good taste inch-by-inch. Sex, drugs, violence, depravity – what do you think this show is all about?! There is – at most – only room for one uptight posh nob on the panel.'

'But … but I thought this was just an intellectual exercise,' cried Gilderoy desperately.

Stanley grimaced, spitting a bit of tobacco on the floor. 'Intellectual exercise? Grow up, will you? People don't want to think; they want to be told that they're smart! Living in a land of fucking peace and love is bloody boring. They want to gloat at how barbaric and primitive those wankers in those other dimensions are. Why do you think the Party Council tolerates these recent programs?'

'Good heavens,' said Bellatrix, rolling her eyes as she waved her wand over one slightly imperfect nail on her left. 'You're a bright little ray of sunshine, aren't you, darling?'

Stan snorted. 'I wanna see how you'd cope with ten years' worth of family-friendly television programmes!' He clapped his hands again. 'All right, break's over. You know what to do. Oi, and you, fatso!' He pointed at a ten-year-old in the crowd. 'Yes, you. I saw you. You didn't clap that one time. With that potion flubdub. I'm warning you, if you make us look bad, I'll sic a dozen lawyers and a score of goblins on you and your entire family, hm kay?'

The woman at the child's side swallowed nervously, bowing her head profusely. 'We're sorry, sir. Won't happen again, sir. I'll make sure of it!'

'See that you do,' growled Stan. 'Bloody hell, it's like this is your first time acting as an audience.' He came to a sudden stop. 'This isn't your first time, is it?'

'No! No. No, it isn't, sir,' stammered the mother hastily, bowing nervously. 'We've both been acting as audiences for several sitcoms, and I'm also a regular for the Witch-From-The-Street interviews.'

'The one where they question "random citizens"?' sneered Stan.

'That's the one.'

'Well, if you're a licensed Polyjuice actor, get your shit together, hm kay? Righ'.'

Gilderoy felt like asking what a licensed Polyjuice actor was supposed to be, but nobody else voiced any surprise, so he figured he was the odd one out.

'Now,' Stan went on, 'everyone in the audience gets on their fucking seat again and smiles for the camera like the happiest motherfucker imaginable, got it?! And you lot, positions! One …'

_**Action!**_

'Two, three – action!'

Gilderoy smiled. It was the one thing he'd always been good at. He knew he wasn't the smartest bloke around, nor the most hard-working. But he could smile, oh dear Merlin yes!

'Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen, to Dark Lord Idol! Now, while we all freshened ourselves up a bit, our nervous hopefuls were waiting just outside the studio. I say – without further ado – let the casting begin!

'Our first applicant to establish their reign of terror is Pansy Parkinson! A big round of applause!'

Gilderoy clapped with the rest of them as their first aspirant sidled inside, ushered by the producer's assistant Neville something-something.

'So, Pansy, tell us about yourself. What makes you think you've got it in you to make Dark Lady?'

'I prefer the term, Mistress, I think,' said Pansy with a shy smile.

'Oh, my,' mumbled Luna, sitting straighter. 'A promising start.'

'Right you are, Dark Mistress,' said Gilderoy indulgently. 'So – why you?'

'Well, I think I could do as good a job as anyone, really,' said Pansy sedulously. 'And even if I couldn't, at the very least I'd look good failing.'

'I see,' said Gilderoy. 'What would you say are your specialities?'

'Well, I can do this sneer. I think it's pretty good – look!' She wildly tossed back her long hair, looking down at Gilderoy and pursing her lips in a slightly lopsided fashion.

'Amazing!' said Gilderoy, wide-eyed. 'That was amazing, Pansy! I feel personally diminished and devalued as a human being!'

'Thank you,' said Pansy gratefully, polite smile restored.

'Excuse me?' asked Luna. 'Pansy, can you do that hair toss once more, please? I'm not sure if I caught all of it. The Blibbering Humdingers keep obscuring my view.'

Gilderoy cleared his throat, trying not to laugh. Blibbering Humdingers? Who would eat that nonsense?!

'Oh.' Pansy blushed a bit. 'I just … I just thought I'd add it. You know. A bit of an extra.'

'What I caught of it looked very promising,' said Luna earnestly, eyes manically wide. 'But I'd like to see it once more, please.'

'Right, right. Hair toss. Right.' Pansy cleared her throat, stared straight at Luna, and – once more – tossed her hair arrogantly.

'Hmm …' said Luna thoughtfully. 'Yes, not bad. Could maybe use more of a sideward spin, and you need to be careful not to let your hair slap your other cheek. But it's a very good start. I like how you showed initiative. Hair toss! Not bad for a first showing, I say!'

'Really?' asked Pansy, relieved. 'Thanks! Thank you so much!'

'Not bad,' agreed Bellatrix delicately. 'But I'm not entirely convinced yet. Would you perhaps be willing to demonstrate something else? Something more … physical? Some re-enactment? I just can't picture your daily life as a Dark Mistress, darling.'

'Oh, yes!' Pansy straightened her robes. 'Bobbo!' she commanded, and a youthful, smiling house-elf appeared at her feet. 'This is Bobbo, my elf. We've got an act prepared. Ready, Bobbo?'

'Yes, Dark Mistress Pansy, ma'am!' The elf gave Pansy an adorable wink.

Pansy nodded, gathered herself, assumed a colder expression, and pointed an accusatory finger at her elf. 'Bobbo!' she yelled.

'Yes, Dark Mistress Pansy, ma'am?'

'I told you to clean the floor, Bobbo!'

'But Bobbo has cleaned it, Dark Mistress Pansy, ma'am.'

'Are you talking back to me, you filthy little creatures?!' She sneered again, nudging the elf anxiously and with pronounced care. 'Is this what you call clean?!'

Bobbo, most unconvincingly, wildly flayed his hands and yelped loudly as he enthusiastically crashed into the floor. 'Mercy, Dark Mistress Pansy, ma'am!' he whimpered, still smiling like a child on Christmas Eve.

'You'll scrub the floor until it's sparkling clean, Bobbo!'

'But it be untreated oak, Dark Mistress Pansy, ma'am!'

'No more excuses!' demanded Pansy haughtily, tossing her hair again.

'Bobbo will do as Dark Mistress Pansy, ma'am commands. Bobbo will to no avail slave away until the wood is being all shiny.'

The elf gave a dramatic fake sob that would have had seasoned opera actors roll their eyes. One moment later, he stood up, scampered over to Pansy, and they both bowed, smiling as the audience cheered wildly.

'I didn't shove you too hard, did I, Bobbo?!' asked Pansy, fretfully inspecting her elf for bruises. 'I'm sorry, I just lost control! I'm a monster!'

'Marvellous!' called Gilderoy over the roar of the crowd. 'Marvellous! But what do our judges say?! Luna?'

'Wow,' breathed Luna. 'That was … like a shower of cold pumpkin juice drenching my clothes! The way you talked down to him. I was sooo impressed by your inclusion of the hair toss and the sneer! I like the casual display of racism, too. Pansy? You are destined for mean things.'

Again, the crowd cheered, and Pansy beamed, curtsying politely in Luna's direction.

'One vote for Pansy already!' said Gilderoy. 'But two more judges to go. Headmistress?'

'Well,' said Bellatrix with a sigh. 'It wasn't bad. I think it's a start. A start.' She raised her hand, inspecting her nails in a different light. 'I suppose. Why not?'

'And that's two votes!' cheered Gilderoy insistently, and the crowd got the hint. 'And now – the final boss. Peter, what do you make of young Pansy's attempt at being a Dark Mistress.'

Peter sucked the air between his teeth, making a face. He leant back in his seat. 'I love what you did with your hair, doll. Great show, that.'

'Thank you!'

'But – I've got to say – auditioning as a Dark Mistress wearing a polka-dotted sundress? I mean, come on!'

'I – I can change!' said Pansy, suddenly speaking very fast. 'Please, I just forgot that it was today, and my mother had already laid out my clothes and –'

'I don't know, I just don't know about this,' said Peter, pressing his lips together and shaking his head. 'I've taken the liberty of looking into your Hogwarts records you handed in with your application. Eight NEWTs, congratulations!'

'Thanks?' said Pansy, hope arising anew like a phoenix from the ash.

But Gilderoy could hear the figurative boot being stuck between the door and sill.

'Only,' continued Peter, his voice deliberately hesitant, 'your Defence mark. An A, Pansy? A Dark Mistress with an Acceptable in Defence Against the Dark Arts? I just don't see it.'

Pansy gave a wild sob, falling to her knees. 'But the professor wanted me to cast a Confundus on a piglet. A cute, adorable, squinting piglet! It was … rigged. It wasn't my fault at all! It was the hardest test in years – ages! Nearly all the girls failed!'

'I like your delusions,' said Peter still wagging his head as if deliberating on the matter. 'I like how in denial you are. That's not half bad. But – I'm sorry, I'm just gonna say it – you're simply way too nice, Pansy.'

The crowd groaned sympathetically.

'What?!' cried Pansy, big crocodile tears rolling down her cheeks.

'I'm sorry, I'm saying it like it is.'

'But I've always wanted to be menacing and mean,' cried Pansy, rubbing her eyes and fleeing the stage. 'I'm mean. I'm so very mean. I'll show you all …'

'Oh, dear,' said Gilderoy. 'Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. The life of an aspiring Dark Lord is surprisingly full of pitfalls. Nevertheless, applause for the very respectable performance of Pansy Parkinson!'

When the cheering died down, Gilderoy looked down at the card in his hand. 'Our next hopeful is Ernie Prang, famous driver of the Knight Bus! Ernie, what have you got for us?'

'Well,' said the elderly man as he came to a stop next to the host, his wild white hair sticking out at every angle imaginable. 'I've got to tell a story. But it might be … implicating. Will I be okay? I mean … considering the occasion.'

Gilderoy looked up from his notes. Behind the set, the producer, his assistant, and one of the Unspeakables were talking fast. The Unspeakable, in particular, appeared to be whispering rapidly. One second later, Stan nodded, turned towards Gilderoy, nodded curtly, and made a beckoning motion with his hand.

'Of course,' said Gilderoy magnanimously. 'Your secret is totally safe with us and the millions of people following us live.'

'Well, all right,' said Ernie, coughing nervously. 'See, last year, in Diagon Alley, I saw someone smear something rude about our Comrade Minister on the wall and … and …' He shuddered, his voice cracking.

'Yes, Ernie?' said Gilderoy, hardly trusting himself to breathe.

Ernie shuddered again, guiltily closing his eyes and averting his head. 'I didn't report it.'

A wave of hush ran along the stands, and Gilderoy's eyes widened. He also couldn't help noticing how the Unspeakable in the back seemed to make a note in a small book of his. 'Well, I'm sure that's something none of us expected. A shivering tale of pure daring! Luna, what do you make of it?!'

'The Nargles keep pestering me about your devious character,' she said dreamily, flapping her hands as if trying to catch some invisible bug.

Gilderoy bit his tongue. Nargles?! The producer was really pushing it now …

'It is foretold,' Luna continued with an eerie, calm voice. 'Ernie Prang. Your destiny is … the dark!'

'Yes, I concur. Solid Azkaban material,' added Bellatrix coldly before the crowd could even begin to clap.

'Wow!' shouted Gilderoy to re-establish a bit of flair and flow. 'Two votes just like that – bang bang! Looking good, Ernie!'

Ernie Prang grinned nervously.

Peter was by now leaning so far back that he was practically lying in his seat. 'And you say you work in public transportation?' he asked.

'Yes,' confirmed Ernie proudly. 'That I do. For forty years now!'

'Forty years?'

'That's right, sir. Forty years. All my family. Family business, public transportation.'

'Seriously?' asked Peter, eyes wide with horror.

'Yes, sir! Ruining your date since fourteen hundred eight, that's what my late father always used to say!' Ernie laughed.

Peter paled. 'Merlin's beard!' he yelled. 'You've got my vote, you monster.'

'Congratulations, Ernie!' cheered Gilderoy loudly, clapping desperately. 'Just down the corridor and to the left. That's our Recall Room. We'll see you around!'

Most of the next candidates were rather dull. So dull, in fact, that Gilderoy's famously infallible grin was starting to feel a little strained.

'Could you repeat that for the crowd please, Quirinus?'

'My wife always calls me a two-faced bastard. That's bound to count for something, right?'

Others were mildly disturbing.

'I watch young boys.'

'You watch young boys, Myrtle?'

The ghost nodded coyly.

'And where do you watch young boys?' prodded Gilderoy.

'Well, everywhere really.'

'Everywhere? Could you give us some examples?'

'Walking, talking, eating. I like watching them eat. Sleeping, too. They make the most adorable faces when they're asleep. Sometimes, I slip underneath their blankets, take my hand, and shove it down their –'

_**Cut!**_

'All right, folks!' yelled Stan, slurping some muddy concoction from a gigantic mug. 'Twenty minutes break. Everyone late loses their job, everyone who leaves the premises activates the penal clause of their contract. The same goes for Floo calls and Apparition. Not that either of those work here. So take a hike already!'

'How are we doing, Chief?' asked Gilderoy.

'Could be worse. Could be worse. But it could also be a hell of a lot better. Luna?'

'What now?' she demanded with annoyance. 'I babbled almost twenty minutes about Lavender's stupid brooch and how it reflected her dastardly destiny written in the void, didn't I? What more do you want me to do?! Hand out prophecies like sweets?!'

'Yeah, yeah, great job,' said Stan, waving a hand. 'Thing is, we need more sex. That dead chick was a good start, but necrophilia might be a bit much for five in the afternoon.'

'More sex?' spluttered Gilderoy, shocked.

'Duh! See, we can't have the Headmistress of Hogwarts act all frisky in public. Some people might consider that inappropriate, what – with her being around children all day and junk. But you, well, you're just some bird from the paper, so cut down on the loony act and let loose.'

Luna's gaze hardened. 'I see how it is. You want me to be the hussy.'

Stan waved another dismissive hand, taking a slurping sip. 'No need to be offended, honey. I'm not asking you to go down on the applicants. Just – you know – crack a few dirty jokes, rearrange your neckline a bit, wink at the camera once or twice, lick your lips sensually, maybe accidentally flash just a hint of nipple when another loser goes on about how he tossed his garbage in his neighbour's bin. Nothing outrageous. Just do it for the camera.'

'I see,' said Luna with an unreadable expression. She turned towards the camera and the young man behind it. 'Well, all right.'

'Righ'. Oh, Peter. I need you to go all out. You're doing great, marvellous, but you need to be more … more.'

'More more?' asked Peter, confused.

'Yeah, just be … more. More extreme. More rude. More macho. More condescending. You know … more, hm kay?!'

Peter shrugged. 'All right.'

Gilderoy shook his head, suppressing the shiver he felt situationally appropriate. With a sad sigh, he went backstage to get some coffee of his own. As luck would have it, he even found a few old scones in one of the cupboards which, by any assistant's standard, was probably considered a fool-proof hideaway.

Right now, he really regretted his decision to accept the offer. He was so busy nowadays that he seldom considered any additional jobs, but this one had sounded so damn intriguing. Live broadcasts were extremely rare nowadays, and his experience with the state-run television had counted for a lot. Right now, however, he dearly wished to be back on his Ministry shows like Know-Your-Muggle, Who-Wants-A-Million-Galleons, or even the annual London Rally the Party always organised. Even in contrast to politicians, these people working in family entertainment were cut-throat – downright vicious. At least politicians had the good grace to smile politely and act decently in public.

Not that he had anything bad to say about the Comrade Minister, especially given how he knew very little about their leader's private life, but Gilderoy had been most impressed with the soft-spoken young man who inspired such fire and fervour when he spoke publicly.

He sneaked a glance at his watch. Better to make it back on time. That Shunpike was bad business. On his way through the catacombs of shattered dreams and broken promises, he stumbled upon the Recall Room. Glancing at his watch again, he shrugged. He had that much time at least. With a boyish grin, he opened the door.

There was nobody inside. Indeed, the only thing inside was a desk, two chairs and … a length of string? A circle of strange runes had been scribbled with chalk at the far back of the room. The air smelled of incense. Well, that was weird.

'Can I help you, sir?'

Gilderoy gave a start. Turning around, he found himself face-to-face with one of the severe and decidedly humourless men from the Department of Mysteries that had largely replaced Aurors and Hitwizards after that Auror revolt a few years ago. 'Oh, I was just having a look. Where are Prang, Myrtle, and the others who got through the first round?'

'Their addresses were taken, and they were sent on, sir.'

'Oh, I see. Shame.'

'Was it, Mr Lockhart?'

Gilderoy cleared his throat that suddenly felt strangely dry and coarse. 'I mean, that Prang was such a funny fellow, eh?'

'Was he really, Mr Gilderoy Lockhart?'

Gilderoy's eyes, by some unknown force of magic, were drawn to the cheap little notebook that the Unspeakable held loosely in his left.

'I, er,' he stuttered. 'Well, obviously the man was a bit misguided.'

'Indeed, sir. Might I suggest you head back towards the stage? The break is nearly over.'

'Right! Right. Thanks, er, Mr …?'

The man's mouth twisted into a dry approximation of a smile. 'No problem, sir. Only doing my duty to my home and country. My family's a big fan of Know-Your-Muggle. Loved the episode about Mao.'

'Right! Right. As we all do. Well, duty away!'

Hastily, Gilderoy retreated towards the studio, feeling like a hare in an encirclement of demonic wolves. Even the sheep, he thought as he watched the entertainer make them go through a few practise laughs and cheers, were behaving decidedly odd. Not rabid exactly, more like … sedated. Numb.

'Ah, there you are, man. Cutting it very close! Anyway, any last questions? Yes? No? I don't care. We're back on air in one, two –'

_**Action!**_

'Three!'

If Gilderoy had thought the last few hours had been weird, it got worse from there. And quickly.

'Say, do you actually think we'd waste our pity on a boring little goody two-shoes like you?' drawled Peter, his feet on the desk, idly scratching the thick carpet of hair on his chest that was sticking out like an overgrown garden now that he'd opened the first four buttons of his shirt. 'Newsflash, broad: you're nothing special.'

Gilderoy winced internally, and only ten years of loyal government entertainment helped him keep his friendly smile.

'Don't take it too hard, darling,' said Bellatrix. 'Not everyone's cut out for this. Just try for something else – like Britain's Best Cleaning Lady.'

'Ah, our jury doesn't mince words,' said Gilderoy desperately as the little girl legged it. 'I'm terribly sorry, Miss Clearwater. Better luck next time! So, who's our next applicant? Let's see, let's see. Aha! Ladies and gentlemen, big applause for … Mr Wolf!'

The brawny man with matted grey hair who entered the stage grinned toothily at Gilderoy. They were extraordinary teeth. Pointy, jagged, and unsettlingly long.

'Hello … Gilderoy,' growled Mr Wolf.

He didn't appear to be trying to intimidate Gilderoy in any way – a fact which worsened the ensuing effect considerably.

'So, Mr Wolf. You think you've got it in you to be bad?' said Gilderoy somewhat redundantly.

The man chuckled, and his body shook with menacing amusement. 'I should think so.'

'Oh, my,' purred Luna, leaning very far forward into the camera. 'Your voice … delicious.'

'You like it?' barked Mr Wolf.

Luna raised a playful eyebrow. 'It's like … hmm … ice sliding down my hot, bare neck, tickling my pure, innocent alabaster skin. It makes me all tingly.' She licked her finger and slowly ran it from her chin downwards. Ever … ever downwards. 'Right here.'

Gilderoy hastily averted his gaze, gulping. Glancing inconspicuously in the producer's direction, he was terrified to see the man make a circle-type motion with his hands, gesturing for Luna to go on.

Luna gave a teasing shudder of ecstasy, lounging on her chair as she playfully twisted her body in an upright position which – mysteriously – managed to draw Gilderoy's eyes even more insistently towards the girl's … girls.

With wide eyes of disbelief, Gilderoy jerked his head around towards the producer again, who – in the process of utterly destroying his faith in humanity – nodded curtly.

'So, er, baps, I mean, Dark Lords,' said Gilderoy bravely, forcefully dispelling images in his mind. 'Mr Wolf, what have you got to tell us?'

'Tell? I don't romp around,' growled the man, flexing his muscles and posing like a bodybuilder. 'I tackle my problems head-on!'

Gilderoy entertained a cynical thought that this man shouldn't have very many lasting problems then. He was a good two feet taller than Gilderoy, who – until this very moment – had never felt inadequate in any particular sense, but with this beast of a humanoid next to him and Luna Lovegood halfway sprawled across the desk and in very clear view of him, he was suddenly feeling rather, well, small.

Peter Pettigrew, on the other hand, was too caught up in his new role to notice how every single muscle was clearly defined against Mr Wolf's skin, straining against his tight clothes. Looking up from the silver snuff box someone had given him backstage – at least Gilderoy hoped it was a snuff box – Peter scoffed disdainfully. 'Well, I don't know about this. Look, puppy, the bad doggy act's been dead and buried ever since the invention of woodcutters and huntsmen. We're looking for mean sons of bitches here, not some howling, hairy health hazard to unsuspecting little girls in the woods.'

Mr Wolf didn't bother with snarling insults. He simply lunged. His standing jump propelled the mountain of menace and muscles about fourteen feet across the room before two spells from the Unspeakables slammed into him.

Peter looked almost as terrified as Gilderoy felt, but the rotund little man recovered surprisingly quickly.

'Heh,' jeered Peter with a rather cruel smirk that – in Gilderoy's opinion – should have seen him qualify for the second round easily. 'Not so tough now, ey, Wolfie? Thought so.'

Gilderoy distinctly saw Stan give Peter a big thumbs up.

The public chaos surrounding what shockingly turned out to be one of the last werewolves in Britain was extremely popular, especially with the producer, who refused to go off air while six men dragged Mr Wolf's body away.

He didn't even twitch anymore after the Unspeakables sent half a dozen additional stunners at the werewolf for 'security reasons'.

'Well, werewolves _can_ be dangerous,' thought Gilderoy nervously. Truth be told, he wasn't the best at magic either. That's what the government or elves were for, right? While all of that was happening, Peter got a few minutes of solo action with the camera, striking poses and mocking the hulk of a man in his absence. Luna and the headmistress, meanwhile, were talking calmly on the sideline, looking rather bored.

Again, Gilderoy couldn't help wondering if he was the odd one out.

The next few applicants were all being sent to the Recall Room, glowing with pride, even though some of them, in Gilderoy's unvoiced opinion, were little more than harmless grumblers. Luna, who might have been the most reasonable (if also the most distracting) of the judges, went so far as to vote for that nutty old lady who kept muttering about some wild government conspiracy.

Idly lounging in her chair, playing with her décolleté and winking teasingly at the cameraman, Luna's good-natured bout of generosity was finally broken in the strangest of ways.

'So, Mrs Miller. Tell us a bit about yourself,' said Gilderoy, admiring the dark cape, obscuring hood, and heavy combat boots this vaguely familiar and enthusiastic applicant was wearing.

'Well, I've been staying with the Muggles ever since Hogwarts.'

'With the Muggles? Good God, I can see you like it dangerous!'

The woman laughed as if she wasn't at all fazed by the daunting world of those vicious, jealous, subhuman non-magicals. 'Well, what can I say. Don't know, somehow just worked out like that.'

'And you left immediately after Hogwarts?'

'Yeah. Well, I tried out for a few teams, you know. But apparently being good at Quidditch in school doesn't necessarily translate to being capable enough for a career.'

'Ouch!' said Gilderoy sympathetically. 'That sounds rough.'

'Yeah, I suppose it was. I got over it.'

'Wait,' called Luna suddenly, eyes bulging. 'Katie?!'

'Er, yeah? Hi, Luna! Haven't seen you in ages! How's the rest of the gang?'

'You were with the Muggles? We've been looking for you! There's a lot you need to know!'

'Well, I got sidetracked. You know, met a nice guy. He's a Muggle healer, and – well, you know how it is – one thing led to another and we –'

'STOOOOOOOP!' screamed Luna at the top of her voice, rocketing from her chair. She was screaming so loudly that the Unspeakable in the back, who had been in the process of taking a note in his book again, accidentally punctured his page with his pencil.

Luna, seemingly oblivious to the startled silence, politely cleared her throat and turned towards Gilderoy. 'I don't want her. She's out!'

'What?!' demanded Peter, almost falling off his chair. 'You know the law! If she's married a Mu–'

Luna didn't immediately verbally reply. Instead, like a self-propelled artillery on rails, she jerkily turned towards Peter, her eyes ignited and aiming to kill. 'I said,' she repeated slowly in a low voice that once more made Gilderoy wish nothing more than that he'd skipped this job, 'she's out.'

Peter swallowed, unable to cope with this most alarming of transformations the quirky and formerly harmless young woman had suddenly gone through. But even after his forced moulding into some bad cartoon character, Peter apparently still retained oddments of self-preservation. He nodded without further complaints.

All eyes turned towards Gilderoy again. 'Oh, yeah, well. I'm so sorry, Mrs, er,' he caught Luna's burning gaze, 'Miss Bell.'

'What? That's not my name any–'

'_Miss Bell_,' repeated Gilderoy forcefully, speaking over her indignant protests. He didn't know what exactly was going on, but he knew which side his sandwich was buttered on. And it definitely was the same side that girl with the terrifyingly bulging eyes was on. The alternative was … No, he definitely was on her side – full stop. 'Sorry, but I'm afraid you're just not what we're looking for.'

'But … but I even got the cape and everything. I've got a speech prepared!'

'I do so apologise,' said Gilderoy with a commiserate smile. 'But this just isn't your day. Better luck next time!'

And it still kept getting worse.

'So, Abe. Tell us about yourself!'

'Yeah, so I used to be into farming. Had to give it up though, move about, didn't stay much in one place.'

'Oh?' asked Gilderoy, relieved to have a tear-free, non-violent conversation with what appeared to be a perfectly sane human being that wasn't interrupted by yelling judges. 'How come?'

'Reasons,' said Abe insightfully. He had long, grey hair that fluttered unkempt and felted about his waist. 'Yeah. Reasons. Had a pub once, too, but that didn't work out either.'

'Why?'

'House fire. Never figured out how – but I have my suspicions.'

'Oh, a mystery fire! What a shame!' said Gilderoy sadly. 'Well, here's your big chance. So tell us, what makes you think you've got what it takes? Not to make you nervous, but the competition's pretty fierce, Abe.'

'Yeah, but those boys aren't like me. Because I've got a burning, endless cauldron of red-hot hate for this one guy. I swear, I'm going to murder him, strangle him with my own fucking hands, and I'll treasure every second of it. I'm going to wrestle the last vestige of life from his treasonous body, laughing, and then, when I'm done, I'm going to fucking find a way to resurrect him and start all over again!'

Bellatrix looked up from her fashion magazine, gazing with vague interest at the old-timer who was still spewing his vitriol.

'I'ma fucking strangle him with his own bleeding guts, I'll cut off his genitals, stuff them into his bullshit spouting cunt-mouth, make him choke on them, and I'll fucking kick his teeth in while I'm at it.'

Luna, who had been in process of squeezing her boobs for the cameraman, stopped and – bizarrely – blushed.

'Wow, that's … that's really intense, Abe,' said Gilderoy carefully. 'Say, who is this man you despise so much?'

'Why, it's none other than Harry fucking P–'

The man fell where he stood as two red jets of light slammed into him – immediately preceded by a vicious streak of haunting green. The silence was absolute. Simultaneously, two hundred heads turned towards the two Unspeakables. They, as it turned out, were equally shocked, staring at the producer's assistant, who was pocketing his wand.

Someone screamed. A burst of collective screaming followed. Chaos, people clamouring about murder, stampeding towards the exit. And then, a burning, searing white-hot flash of light restored order, dazing most of the audience who hadn't seen the Unspeakables raise their wands.

'Sir?' the first one said, wand trained on the assistant. 'We need you to come with us. You're under arrest.'

'I don't think so,' said the young man dismissively. With steady, calm moves, he procured some kind of badge and showed it to the Unspeakables, who – to Gilderoy's utter disbelief and terror – recoiled. 'This is a matter of State Security. That man was a known terrorist sentenced to death seven years ago. You,' he said, pointing at a few backstage workers, 'get him out of here.'

'You killed him!' shrieked a woman in the audience. 'Murderer!'

The assistant looked up, his eyes homing onto the woman. The Unspeakables actually winced.

'Is there some problem, ma'am? As I just explained, this was a lawfully sanctioned use of deadly force.'

'No. No … this isn't right. You can't just –'

'I understand,' said what Gilderoy considered the newly crowned scariest assistant in the history of TV entertainment. 'Gentlemen, take her to the Recall Room, please.'

'What?!' demanded Stan Shunpike. 'You can't do that, boy! That's not at all what –'

Another flash of red light and the producer collapsed at his assistant's feet. 'Right. Better take Mr Shunpike, too. He seems to suffer from an attack of sudden enervation after these stresses and strains. Anyone else feeling tired? Thought so. The program will continue as planned. Luna? Stop that nonsense, please. Pettigrew? If you don't button up, I'll consider your getup a national state of emergency and forcefully depilate you. Headmistress …?'

Bellatrix sighed. 'I understand.' She pocketed her magazines, neatly folding her hands and looking politely attentive. 'Change in production values, I assume?'

'You could say that. All right, any other questions? Excellent! We'll continue with the next take.'

'Who put you in charge?!' demanded one of their technical staff. 'Shouldn't they call the shots?' the man said, pointing at the Unspeakables.

'What?' squeaked one Unspeakable, slinking into the shadows. 'Oh – no! No! We –' He faltered, straightening his clothes. 'We wish to make it clear that State Security has our full and utter confidence, and we … we strongly urge all upstanding citizens to assist Comrade Longbottom with total faith and revolutionary dedication.'

'Thank you, that is quite enough,' said Longbottom curtly. 'Everyone, positions!'

'Bugger that! I'm not taking orders from no gofer!' snarled the suicidal stage designer from earlier. 'I'm out of here.'

Somewhere behind the judges' panel, Luna gave an entirely inappropriate giggle. 'He did it! He snarled! Can't we keep him for the show?'

Longbottom nodded jerkily at one of the Unspeakables, who immediately laid a kind but firm hand on the mutinous employee. 'It's all right, sir. I'll take you outside for a bit of fresh air.'

'But I don't need to –'

'No, really,' continued the Unspeakable smoothly. 'I insist, sir. A bit of fresh air will do you good. Clear your mind.'

'Well, fine. Okay. I'm going.'

They all watched them leave. They didn't, Gilderoy noticed, leave through the corridor that would lead towards the nearest exit. Rather, they were walking in the direction of the Recall Room, too.

'Anything you wish to say, Professor?' asked Longbottom with predatory politeness.

'Er … no. So … we'll be getting on with it then?'

'Very good, Professor.'

And he did make it to the next break – somehow.

_**Cut!**_

'You can make it through this, Gilderoy,' muttered the selfsame Gilderoy Lockhart, sprinkling his face with a generous measure cold water. 'You'll make it through this, go home, read the paper – or at the very least the Muggle cartoon –, and sleep in your bed. And tomorrow, everything will be as it used to be. Everything will be fine. Fine! Everything will be just fine.'

He looked up into the mirror, trying to calm his breathing. He'd seen someone die. He'd seen someone snuff it right in front of him. Right on the ruddy stage! Why did nobody think to call the show off? And what in Merlin's name was State Security supposed to be?! Nervously, he looked over his shoulder. One of the Unspeakables was leaning against the door of the lavatory, looking preoccupied without – Gilderoy couldn't help but notice – doing anything at all.

'You'll be fine,' he muttered, lowering his voice. 'This is just a bad day. Everyone has bad days!'

With a forced nod, he dried his face and made his way out of the room. The Unspeakable casually took off as well.

'You're going to be fine. Fine! Just fine!' thought Gilderoy forcefully, trying to rid himself of his nerves. He hastened his stride.

Gilderoy took a few unnecessary turns that lead him on a complicated route back towards the lavatory. When he turned to look over his shoulder, the Unspeakable was again coolly leaning against the corridor wall.

A shiver ran down Gilderoy's spine. 'Er, is something wrong?'

The Unspeakable looked up, perplexed. 'Not at all, sir? Why would you say that, sir? Do you think something's wrong, sir? You can speak freely … sir.'

'No, er, it's. Well,' stammered Gilderoy wretchedly, conceding that fear was the better part of bravery. 'I just couldn't help noticing that you seem to be following me.'

'Oh, I see!' said the Unspeakable as if this was an entirely new line of thought. 'I can see how that might concern you, sir …'

The man in the dark trench coat hesitated, and Gilderoy desperately prayed that whatever followed began with an 'only', or a 'but', or at the very least a 'yet'. He wasn't sure he'd be able to live with the alternative.

'… still – you see, sir – we have some unsavoury characters at this location. My presence is warranted for security reasons.'

'Well,' thought Gilderoy. 'That didn't sound too bad … right? Right?! Right!'

'That's … all right then?' he asked desperately.

'Yes, sir.'

On his way back to the stage, Gilderoy couldn't help sneaking a peek into the Recall Room. Not a single of those dozens of people they'd sent ahead was there. Instead, Mrs Mi– Miss Bell and Comrade Longbottom were in deep conversation while an Unspeakable served both of them coffee, cake, and a selection of fruit.

Longbottom briefly looked up, nodded at Gilderoy, and turned away again.

Odd. So who was in charge of production now?!

The answer was both surprising, obvious, and – most of all – wrong.

'There you are, Mr Lockhart,' said Stanley Shunpike, nodding with a courteous little smile. 'Thank you for being on time. If you'd just go back to your position, please.'

'Er, right?' Looking with concern at the peacefully simpering producer, he added, 'Are you feeling quite all right?'

'Oh, yes, thank you for asking. I'm very fine on this wonderful evening.'

Gilderoy's eyes wandered towards the panel of judges. Luna and the headmistress were talking intimately again, but Peter looked lost and somewhat nervous. Then, Gilderoy understood why.

'Er, I see we … lost some of our audience,' he said with a brave attempt at humour, trying not to stare at the empty stands.

'Ah, yes,' said Stan. 'I'm afraid we had to downsize a tad. Please do not be alarmed. Put your trust in The Party and its righteous leaders.'

'All right?' Gilderoy said. Because what else was there so say at this point.

Before he got foolish enough to ask any more questions, they were on air again. It was autopilot from there for Gilderoy.

'Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen. This is our last batch of applicants today, and – my! – what a day it's been. Dangerous beasts, muttering malcontents, an edgy pub owner, the devilish svengali of public transportation themselves – we've had it all! Let's see what big surprise awaits us next at Dark Lord Idol! Big applause for Mr Filch,' said Gilderoy before he could stop himself. But, to his amazement, cheers and clapping filled the empty studio from all sides. A spell, presumably. The ghostly applause coming from those barren, deserted stands was one of the creepiest experiences Gilderoy had ever had to endure, but he smiled. He smiled fiercely.

'So, Mr Filch. You're the caretaker of Hogwarts Castle, aren't you?'

The grumpy man grunted, caressing some mangy, inert cat in his arms. 'Yes.'

'I see! And what makes you think you've got a shot at becoming Britain's Dark Lord Idol?'

'Well, first of all, I'd do away with all those recent rubbish laws,' grumbled the man. The cat suddenly blinked, wide awake.

Gilderoy uncomfortably cleared his throat. 'Rubbish laws? I'm sure I don't understand, sir.'

'Yes, well, you're even dimmer than you look, then, eh? At first, it was all good. At first, I thought someone finally had the right of it. The stern disciplining of students. The close observation on those nasty brats. The return to value and tradition! I didn't give a Knut about the Marriage Law, but that blasted Squib Act. The nerve, the outrage! I'm no second-class citizen! I'll show 'em. I'll show 'em all!'

The cat gave a loud miaow and leapt from its master's hands, vanishing between the empty rows in the front.

'Mrs Norris? Mrs Norris, my dear! Where's my cat?!'

'Don't worry, sir,' said one of the Unspeakables. 'I'm sure we'll find her eventually. All exits have been sealed with great foresight.'

'You better! I want my cat!'

'Yes, well, continuing along,' said Gilderoy nervously, tugging at his collar and glancing at the Unspeakable in the corner, who was scribbling away with fervour. 'And how would you go about achieving all that exactly?'

'Well, first of all, I'd buy some old war trophy, march down Downing Street, and make my own justice!'

'I think we've heard enough,' said Bellatrix smilingly. 'I knew you wouldn't disappoint me, Argus.'

'A man's gotta do what's right!'

'Indeed! And your decisive stance so splendidly deserves my vote. It's been a pleasure making your acquaintance.'

'Me, too,' agreed Luna lightly. 'I'll remember this moment with fondness.'

Peter, clearly uncomfortable with his new-found lack of direction, just nodded.

'Congratulations!' said Gilderoy enthusiastically over the spooky bout of applause. 'You've made it, Mr Filch! Please proceed to the Recall Room!'

'But my cat!'

The Unspeakable wordlessly waved his wand.

'The Recall Room,' said Mr Filch blandly. 'Yes, of course. Right away. Hurray Britannia!'

Gilderoy gulped, consulting his cards with trembling hands. 'And next, from the Scottish highlands, famous erstwhile headmistress of our beloved Hogwarts – Professor Minerva McGonagall!'

McGonagall gave him a stern nod as she climbed the stage with the help of a walking cane. 'Thank you, Gilderoy.'

'Professor, I must admit, you were the last person I'd've ever pictured showing up!'

'Yes,' she said, eyeing the Unspeakable with haughty dislike. 'A few years ago, I would hardly have imagined attending myself.'

'So what made you reconsider?' asked Gilderoy, slightly nervous next to the formidable and noticeably wroth woman. He could spot the figurative fuse burning from a mile away. 'Surely, retirement can't be that bad?!'

'Retirement?' she spat, flaring up. 'Is that what everyone's been told?! I didn't retire! I was forced out!'

'Forced out? I … I'm afraid I don't follow, Professor. I mean, we're all aware of your enormous dedication to magical education. Why – you're a celebrated war hero! Your bravery and will to stand for what's right is the stuff of legends, tales we tell our adoring children!'

Professor McGonagall stood a bit straighter, but her disapproval couldn't have been clearer all the same. 'Yes. Yes, we've been told a great many tales and legends. I'm here to finally speak out. To speak the truth for the entire world to hear!'

'And … and what truth would that be, Professor?'

'Well, Gilderoy, the truth that we are all victims of the greatest, most successful, vilest treachery the history of mankind has ever seen. That we are all victims of a web of lies. A web spun so closely, so lovingly wrapping about our bodies and minds, that the insides of our cocoon only feebly reflect our fading recollections of the world beyon–'

She whirled around, and her wand became a blur. Two bangs later, one Unspeakable and the producer were on the floor, wrapped in glowing rope. 'DON'T YOU DARE MOVE, YOU SILLY LITTLE BOY!'

Minerva McGonagall was pointing her wand at the other Unspeakable. 'I WILL be heard, Sturgis, and you do not have the power to make me stop. You disgust me!' she spat on the floor at the Unspeakable's feet. 'To think that you once stood up against evil. How the mighty have fallen!'

'Er, Professor?' asked Gilderoy timidly. 'I'm sure there's no need to … escalate matters. This is just an audition, you see–'

'Oh, be quiet already, Gilderoy!' snapped Professor McGonagall. 'Anyone else want a word? Miss Lovegood? No? Nothing new from the press? No new appeal of dedication, of loyalty to our leaders? Or how about you … Headmistress Black.'

Gilderoy tried to shrink away with all his might. Neither Filch nor that Abe fellow could have put quite as much hate into their words as Minerva McGonagall addressing Bellatrix Black.

'Not at all, Professor,' said Bellatrix, smirking. 'Or should that be professor emeritus? But please do go on. I am … enraptured.'

Gilderoy gulped, sneaking a glance at the running cameras. This was bad, wasn't it?!

'You!' Professor McGonagall said, pointing her wand at the lad behind the camera. 'Keep it going or I _will_ be forced to harm you.'

The young man with the hoodie nodded jerkily.

'I regret my course of action,' McGonagall continued imperiously, addressing the camera while glancing at the Unspeakable from the corner of her eye, 'but there comes a time when words alone no longer suffice. We have all been duped, bamboozled, deceived, and lied to by the greatest Dark Lord in the history of magic. Deceived by a man so thoroughly dedicated to dominating us all that he would not shirk from any misdeed or crime to the human race to achieve his ends. A man so low, so thoroughly rotten, so despicable that he managed to hoodwink an entire society with beguiling charm and poisonous gifts.

'This, my fellow witches and wizards, my dear squibs, fellow humans and magical beings, is a man so single-mindedly focused to rule above all that – with nary a single breeze of dissent – an entire country was unwittingly reduced to a state of torpor and blissful ignorance, reduced to waving flags and taking pride, reduced to watching these cheap mind-sapping shows, reduced to nothing but the pandering of animalistic instincts, reduced to a herd of unminding cattle. And this man and his fellow conspirators would see us all enslaved to his mad vision of the future.'

'And …' whispered Gilderoy, shaking from head to toe. 'And who is it?'

They all held their breaths, knowing whatever was said now, whatever was said in front of this camera, said by this faded but loved pillar of society could never be washed away again.

'Harry James Potter.'

Gilderoy felt his heart miss a beat. Peter was swearing violently, cursing as he shot out of his seat and fled for the exit. But where was there to run? Where was there to go? The Unspeakables had the studio surrounded. Harry Potter's regime might well fall this day, but Peter Pettigrew would be one of its last victims. Gilderoy, with unaccustomed clarity, decided to stick it out right here. Right where it happened. Until the end. To witness the end.

'Harry Potter, your precious Comrade Minister, has systematically placed numerous members of the press, of the Ministry, of the entire public under his control through elaborate schemes involving blackmail, duress, bribery, and – not least of all – Unforgivable Magic. Yes, you heard me right. Harry Potter, the Comrade Chairman himself, has been using the Imperius Curse on dozens, perhaps hundreds of victims. My years of investigation unearthed that he might have started using the curse as early as his seventh year in school, one year after the great Albus Dumbledore's tragic accident. I have proof, and I'm willing to share. The proof is for all of us to see; we just need to want to look for it.'

She produced a thick file with pictures and addresses with her free hand and held it in front of the camera. The first page showed a plumb, friendly-looking woman potting a plant.

'He and his … coterie of devout, loyal, and most of all ruthless followers have been replacing key positions of public offices even back during the war! The entire crown law has secretly been replaced with a convoluted set of secret acts that empower his loyal Unspeakables to modify the memory of whoever openly voices dissent or threatens the established order. Thousands and thousands of people have been reprogrammed like … like any of those Muggle machines we so arrogantly laugh about, reprogrammed to follow The Party, to wave our banners, to love and adore the soiled ash of liberty we're given to drink each morning by the grace of our Comrade Minister – and be grateful for it!

'But this ends now. This all ends now. Together, we can rise, take back the power, restore freedom and any semblance of justice. Together, we can make this country ours again.'

There was a pregnant silence as they all stared with horror at the dignified old lady.

And then someone began to clap. It was a slow, needlessly dramatic – Gilderoy was prepared to go as far as sarcastic – clap. If claps could be malevolent, this one cackled with malicious glee, smirking from atop a lofty throne as it beheld the kingdoms of its lessers with idle amusement.

'Very good, Professor.'

Gilderoy had a second look to make sure he wasn't seeing things. He wasn't; it was the camera assistant. All eyes had turned to him, but that didn't perturb the young man in the least as he continued his ovations that fell into the abyss of silence.

Professor McGonagall, however, paled. Paled as if she'd seen a vision of mortality and damnation. 'H– Harry?'

The young man swept back his hood. It was Harry Potter – if the world allowed Harry Potter, the great leader of the Movement, the most powerful man in Britain to wear a dirty, mundane old hoodie. 'Very well done, Professor. You did so very well. I can't believe you found out about the Imperius on Pomona. And it appears as if you even know the truth about the Bones Coup.'

The old woman raised her chin. 'You're not as clever as you think, Harry. We're not all flies in your cobweb yet. Some of us struggle. Some of us remember wider skies.'

'Oh, my dear, dear Professor,' said the young man with silky delight. 'You were never a fly. You were meant to be a spider. It is a shame that you chose otherwise.'

'It's over, Harry,' said the old woman stoically. 'I know I can't beat you in a fight. I know. But the entire country will be in an uproar. Your charade has failed and the curtain been lifted. There was,' she gave a pained smile, 'a wind to rip the web after all.'

Harry Potter just smiled, smiled kindly as he made his way around the judges' panel, patting a terrified Gilderoy on the shoulder as he went along.

'You were always very smart, Minerva. You never quite trusted me either. Just like Albus. But you're wrong, you see. Wrong on two accounts even. Firstly, I didn't start using the Imperius in my seventh year. I knew I could never start the revolution with Albus around. I knew I wouldn't be able to overpower and outsmart Albus for years, decades. I knew that man had power and friends.

'But in his insurmountable strength, he was ultimately a man of weakness.

'You see, Albus' weakness was his love. Love for his old, old flame. Love for his dead, dead, family. Love for his school, its students. Love – why – even love for me.'

'You … YOU MONSTER!' screamed Professor McGonagall, launching herself at the young man.

Harry Potter's spell caught her easily, holding her in his grasp, freezing her in the air – just like a fly.

'My dear Minerva. Albus was trusting. Did you know his secret? Yes, I see it in your eyes that you do. Poor, little Ariana. And the other one, too. You know, don't you? Grindelwald himself. Albus was a man of forgiveness – how could he not be? He was forced to be forgiveness because forgiveness was what he craved the most. Amusing, isn't it, seeing as there was no one left to offer it, his family in tatters, fallen out with his brother.

'And so,' continued Harry Potter calmly, his forefinger drawing over the desk of the judges as he made his way towards the old woman who was still frozen in flight, 'I came to him. I confessed. Don't you see? The deadliest weapon at my disposal was repentance. I confessed it all atop the windy roof of the Astronomy Tower. The manipulations, my aspirations, the violence, my dreams … all of it. And then, when his disdain for me was at its highest, when we stood there, alone on the roof and I was at his mercy, I sank to my knees … and begged his forgiveness.'

He laughed, and it wasn't the silken drawl of silent superiority anymore, it was a wild, unbound laughter of pure, utter glee. Gilderoy didn't trust himself to speak. He didn't trust himself to breathe.

'And he faltered. How could he not?! He faltered at the height of my weakness, in the coils of his old past, his old wound. Forgiveness faltered. And that's when the spider struck! I knew my Imperius wouldn't be able to hold on to Albus Dumbledore for longer than a second – even with his mind thrown into turmoil. But what would I need but a second? One moment. One command … one word.'

With a raspy voice, Gilderoy muttered, 'Jump …'

Harry Potter turned around, smiling that classy smile of princes. 'Ah, Gilderoy. You were never quite as stupid as you made yourself out to be. Yes. It was so very easy. He threw the curse off almost immediately … and I had the great pleasure of watching him comprehend his imminent death, his eyes meeting mine, the betrayal, the disgust, the acknowledgement of the ironic hand he had been dealt. I saw it all. I saw his fall. I saw forgiveness fail. And it was delectable.'

Professor McGonagall had silent tears of anger and despair in her eyes, but when she spoke, her voice was still quite calm. 'What is this mummer's play, Harry. You know better than to explain it all right at your own downfall. You're no storybook villain. Cease this madness!'

And Harry Potter laughed, and every laugh, every chuckle was like a needle in Gilderoy's side. 'Oh, you know me too well, Minerva. But you might be getting old if you haven't caught up yet. I killed Albus, I killed forgiveness by its own design. Now, what do you think I'd do to the Resistance? To those in the know, to those who – at the very least – suspect. Why, I give you exactly what you want, just like with dear old Albus. Albus chased forgiveness. And you marched under illusive banners of hope. You, Aberforth, even poor old, confused Madam Bones. You lived in hope – and that is why I offered it freely. You all gathered here of your own free will, the deranged, the insurgent, the malcontent. Because you dared to hope. And that's when the spider struck again.'

Harry Potter lightly nudged the camera. It fell to the floor, not with the sound of plastic, metal, and electronics smashing into the ground, but with a sad flop of papery dreams.

'One switching Spell,' said Harry Potter. 'That's all it took.'

'I– I don't understand. I _saw_ the transmission,' muttered McGonagall, eyes brimming with black despair. 'I checked it was going even before I entered this very room. I checked even if the transmission was live.'

'Yes, that, my dear, is the extent of hopeful optimism. Polyjuice is such an effective means of disguise. We have other studios, you see. It wasn't all that hard to set it up in a way that would allow us to switch between transmissions whenever convenient. Ever wondered why you had to sign the application in person? One hair was all that we needed. Trained actors playing our applicants, trained actors playing the jury, trained actors playing trained actors playing the audience – well, as long as it was needed – and, of course, trained actors playing our famous Gilderoy Lockhart, though – I have to admit – even your double never quite got your incredible smile right, Gilderoy. You really have a gift.'

'So it was all for nothing? The uncensored live broadcast? The known location of the studio? It was all a hoax?'

Harry Potter smiled, almost compassionately, as he flicked his wand, lifting the spell on the old woman, who sank to the floor. All the fight had left her.

'Yes, Professor. It was all a hoax, a dream. It was merely hope rearing its head. Hope failed as I knew it must, just like forgiveness did. But maybe you care to guess what I am, Professor?'

'I … I don't know. Madness. Domination. The end.'

Harry shook his head. 'Oh, no. Not the end, no. That role is for someone else to fill. I, my dear Minerva, am not even a spider casting its web, as fitting as the comparison might appear. No, like everyone else, I am what fate made me, and though there were a certain amount of spiders involved in my childhood, I didn't literally mimic their eight-legged ways. But I was miserable, downtrodden, powerless for the vast majority of my young life. Alone. Despised. Isolated. I, Professor, was weak.

'And just like forgiveness and hope, I too am a harbinger of my past. It was easy to find the nick in Albus' armour, easy to spot your Achilles' heel, and almost laughably obvious to exploit the Ministry's.

'I am weakness, Professor. I was the weakest, the meanest, the least of them all – and that is why my ascension is so much greater, that is why I will not fall on my own sword. Because I learned to become strong by being weak. I, Professor, am the villain who outgrew the heroes.'

Minerva gave a humourless, weak chuckle. 'And like any villain, you are arrogant, Harry. You, too, will be undone.'

'In time,' conceded the young monster politely. 'Yes, in time I will. But not here, not now, and not – I dare say – by your hands.'

'You'll never get away with this, Harry – never!'

'Ah, the hero's epitaph. Apt.' Harry Potter smirked again, and his smirk caused Gilderoy to close his eyes, imagining his home, freshly brewed coffee, the insipid cartoon. He so badly wanted the world to make sense again. 'So be it then, Minerva. I trust you are aware that I do not go back on my word. Indeed, to this day, I have never broken any promise or deal that wasn't broken by someone else first.'

'I know of your chivalry,' spat Minerva. 'Spare me. What do you want from me? I have nothing left to offer.'

'Ah, but you do, Professor. Hope cannot leave the stage like this. I hold no ill will towards Gryffindor. Truthfully, I don't believe in the houses at all, but even at their core, Gryffindors and Slytherins aren't so different. Merely two sides. One idealistic, one pragmatic. My word is as golden as any lion's roar, Professor.'

Professor McGonagall snorted derisively. 'I trust you'll understand if I don't take your word for it.'

Harry Potter's mouth twitched with amusement. 'How pragmatic, Professor. I admit, I admire how staunch you are in your beliefs. I do. I value those with a strong will.' He suddenly perked up, a playful grin washing over his youthful face. 'How about this, Minerva? I shall give you my wand. If you can see to my arrest, I will submit peacefully.'

Professor McGonagall's eyes popped. Evidently, she couldn't trust the man's words any more than Gilderoy did. And yet – with the most arrogant smirk imaginable – Harry Potter produced his wand … and tossed it at the old woman.

The entire room was drowned in silence as the small stick rolled across the floor. The old professor dived for it, clutching it firmly in her grasp, pointing it at the still grinning Harry Potter, who had both hands in the air.

'I don't know what games you're playing. Maybe the power really did get to your head. Sturgis? Sturgis! You can't honestly tell me you still trust this megalomaniac madman after everything you've heard. Please, I urge you to do right – not by me but by our entire country. Have you fallen so low? Don't you move a muscle, Black!'

'I … I've got family, Professor,' said the Unspeakable wretchedly. 'I can't just –'

'Yes. Yes, you can. You must. You must do it for them! Do you wish to tell your daughter that her father had the chance to save this country and didn't dare to?!'

The Unspeakable gulped, but his eyes steadied. 'You … you're right, Professor. But we need to hurry. The entire perimeter is swarming with agents. We need to hurry on foot and outrun the wards.'

'And we will,' said the woman, pointing her wand between Harry Potter and Bellatrix Black. 'Miss Lovegood? Gilderoy? Get out of the way if you do not wish to be harmed!'

Gilderoy nervously jumped to his feet, feeling dazed. Was this happening? His feet didn't think twice though, and he scampered towards a corner of the room with Luna Lovegood in tow.

'You will face trial, Harry, that is all I can offer,' said Professor McGonagall with suppressed emotion.

'A fair proposition,' remarked the apparent prisoner, who still held his smirk that was entirely unbecoming of losing control. 'More than I would have offered you.'

'More than you _ever_ offered us.'

'I came to know the old order the way it was, and I found it unfair. Where was the judge then, I ask you?'

'Enough! Enough, Harry. Sturgis? Lead the way.'

The Unspeakable nodded, motioning for Harry Potter to slowly approach. And he did. Still smirking, he made his way across the room, hands held high, gaze firmly ahead. McGonagall, meanwhile, had her wand trained on Black.

'This is where we part,' said Professor McGonagall when they reached the door.

Gilderoy's heart skipped another beat. They'd make it. The corridors were easily barricaded and more easily collapsed still. Whatever plan Harry Potter had, it would die should he set one foot down that corridor.

'Indeed,' replied Harry Potter simply. 'A fitting end.'

Minerva McGonagall, eyes narrowed, didn't blink, didn't look away for even one second, her distrustful glare fixed on the mildly amused headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the woman who had so eagerly replaced her, taken her place, ripped it from her with guile and lies. But Minerva was confident, her wand firmly in her hand.

And that was how the Killing Curse hit her.

Gilderoy watched it with disconnected fascination as it soared across the length of the room. Nobody cried out. Minerva didn't try to block it. She didn't dodge. There was no miracle, no divine intervention. She simply slumped down, never to rise again.

'I'm very sorry, Professor.' Gilderoy shuddered, looking down at the young woman next to him. Luna Lovegood was downcast, regretful as she lowered her wand. 'You were a good teacher and a brave woman. But hope, I fear, needs to die one more time.'

'No. NO!' yelled the Unspeakable, Sturgis Podmore, even as Gilderoy sank to the floor. 'I still have Potter. Don't you move, Lovegood! I'll kill him! I'll do it!' His wand swished from Lovegood to Black every second, ready to cast at a moment's notice.

Harry Potter violently drove the edge of his hand into the throat of the Unspeakable behind him, spun and slammed his knee into his stomach, put one hand behind the swaying man's head and rammed it with a sickening crunch into the corridor wall.

It was all one fluid movement. Sturgis Podmore sank to the ground, leaving a red stain in his wake.

'In a world of magic, the weak need to learn every means of survival, Sturgis. But your particular brand of weakness, I dare say, is no longer needed.'

Bellatrix Black got to her feet, rolling her eyes. 'Are we done then? You really like to hear yourself talk, don't you, Nephew?'

Gilderoy, on the ground, tried to crawl away – away from all of this – away from the serenely smiling Harry Potter, away from the arrogant nonchalance of Bellatrix Black, away even from the sorrowful look of Luna Lovegood. Away. Home. To the confines of the world where life played out the way it was supposed to.

'Apologies. It seems I got carried away. But yes, we're about done here. Please don't start dinner without me.'

'Don't make us wait then.' Without a backwards glance, the headmistress left, stepping over the corpses of Podmore and McGonagall.

'I see you are confused, Gilderoy.'

Gilderoy frantically shook his head, pushing himself back with all his might, back from them all.

'Don't worry. Hope will rise anew, as it always must. Not that you'll be remembering any of this, to be sure. But you must be wondering, yes? Wondering who all the players in this game of life and death are?'

Gilderoy was still wagging his head, clawing away at the floor.

'No? Are you sure?' asked Harry Potter with that devilish smirk again. 'It's quite poetic, I promise.'

Slowly he walked over to Luna Lovegood, putting one finger underneath her chin to make her look up and away from the corpse of their erstwhile teacher.

'Tell him, Luna. Tell him what and who fittingly killed hope.'

Gilderoy's back hit a wall. He could go no further. Reluctantly, like a deer caught in the headlights, he looked up through red eyes.

The two figures stood right opposite each other. And even as the Dark Lord they deserved wiped a silent tear from Luna Lovegood's cheek, she reached out for him, buried her hands in his hair and back for dear life, drew him close … and kissed him.


End file.
